


Maybe One-day We Won't Be Considered Freaks

by WelcomeToTheEndOfThings



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelcomeToTheEndOfThings/pseuds/WelcomeToTheEndOfThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of poems/short story things about being trans and the issues that go with it. Hopefully somebody reads this but if not oh well. I'm just putting my thoughts out into the open world...my voice is like somebody injected a little kid with helium but I'm still a voice for anybody that needs help or just to see they're not alone in this mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking Down the Street: Oh the Horror

To some, walking down the street isn't a big deal; it's a bit uncomfortable to meet a stranger's eye at most. Imagine adding ten, bulky, heavy pounds of trepidation on top of that. Fear that somebody is going to walk up and point out all the flaws of yourself. The flaws that make it so you don't fit in with the girls; who smirk and giggle at you behind their hands. The flaws that definitely make it so you don't fit in with the guys; who constantly say no homo when just barely touching each other's hands. Softly brushing up against each other like twin kittens lost before merging into wolves, bared teeth with spit flying. 

The day is nice but the pants will always hang low like the sagging skin of an old man's neck. Large enough around the legs, confining it in cages to help deal with the pain when suddenly: they're stuck. They're stuck on the too wide of hips that are sprung out like fish fins to nestle little kids on. To bounce them on as you sway softly to the music muffled in the back as they try to sleep. A jagged scar on a perfect picture, as you have to go up three sizes before you can wear them. Get them up past the giant hips that bump into the door frames and that were made for Latin love dances. Soft and sexy. That's not you though, you're hard lines molded from your own two bloodied hands. The sun shines down and the urge to spin around in dizzy spirals becomes too much to bare. So you go outside, oh wait don't forget all the layers that hide the memories. You're dying a little bit on the inside and a hell of a lot on the outside. None of that matters though because when people look, they see a man. A strong, confident man who's a bit sweaty-miss I just wanted to ask if you're alright. *BAM* It pops, your illusion of being seen as a man explodes. You're a sweaty little lady in the eyes of the world. 

All the pain you go through just to have the illusion there aren't two misplaced balls of fat on your chest; is wasted. It's sad and yet other people don't seem to care about every ounce of effort put into it; they care if you look like the other gender you're not in drag. Maybe that's why you refuse to dance outside in the sun anymore when you're sick of the suffocating darkness. 

So you rush back inside, you push away the worried glances and you die beneath your covers. You die because when you walk it looks like a cowboy with a stick up his ass. When you talk it's like somebody handed a little kid helium. When you hang with the guys, you're embarrassed because you don't fit. When you're with the girls, all you can imagine is what their lips taste like and it grows stale all too quickly. You die a little bit inside because you haven't been outside in so long because you wish you were dead instead of being forced with this body. You wonder if maybe this is all life is going to be, dying and hiding who you are. 

Oh well, one day we won't be considered freaks. Parents won't ask if we're just confused or if we've been brainwashed. They'll believe us without making us feel like escaping through a window as the words slip forth. The obligation to stay inside the lines is such a restraining notion that it's one of the reasons so many are pushed off the cliff's edge. It's kill or be killed and in the end, your end result is both. You're dying every time somebody says the wrong thing and pushing other's away because you feel worthless. 

Maybe one day we can be comfortable in our skin. Maybe we'll feel real one day. Maybe is a large stretch of uncertainty though...


	2. Chests....Oh Wait Those Are Breasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The uncomfortable, unbearable presence of breasts on men...and just yea....

Bouncing, jiggling balls of fat that weigh you down; unnecessary and irritating. Your face is a male, your figure is a board with the insignia if a man upon it. Yet the ugly, out of place bouncing balls distract the world's eyes and suddenly you're not who you are anymore. 

You're no longer a person, your an object; a toy, simply because of some stray fat. It doesn't help that once they can see the hideous beasts; they instantly try and seek out anything else. Something, anything, that points them in the direction of being slathered in the ghastly color pink with a circular cross burned into our souls. 

They're large and it's awkward whenever something hits them. Yet it feels good to feel them ache. To hurt after all the uncomfortable pain they've caused you; now you can hurt them back. You can bind them up like little presents, out of sight out of mind. Except they're not out of your mind; the thought they're there in the first place weighs down heavily. Let alone all the risks you're taking with this. However, it's worth it. It's worth it to feel your smooth chest out and proud. 

Aching, stiff, and wishing for it to end is all that decorates the insides of your mind. It hurts to feel the way you do but the pain can only last for so long. Before it all just fades into blank grey nothingness. 

Breasts are stupid, pointless, and infuriating; they'll never compare to the thought of bare in-the-middle-of-summer chests.


	3. Falling in Love; a Tortured Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My misadventures in falling in love...so what if I'm a bit of a pessimist?

Heh, everybody says it's a wonderful feeling; love that is. That it doesn't matter who you love yet they still look uncomfortable with it. You can pick your life they say: but how come it suddenly doesn't fit into what they picked out for you? 

We'll always accept you, really them why do you refuse to call me what I am? A man! I am a man and maybe you're uncomfortable but so what? I'm fucking uncomfortable too! Uncomfortable with the way you look when the news pops up about the community I am! If the roles were reversed I'd sell my soul to make you happy. 

What they don't tell you is that it hurts like hell. That falling for somebody you connect with on every level hurts like a bitch. Her smile entrances me, it's wider than a canyon and brighter than the sun. Her laugh is sweeter than bells chiming and I always have the feeling of wanting to kiss her. 

She is a lifeline that I refuse to cut. Especially by telling her what my heart does when she hugs me. Besides, her eyes and heart are set on somebody else; someone who is already taken. I can't go through with losing her. 

Why do I fall from the heavens for those who can't love me back? I'm ashamed to admit it; I'm a coward when it comes to her.


End file.
